


Whatever Gets The Job Done

by Trivena_Butterfly



Category: Girl Genius (Webcomic)
Genre: Ambiguous Post-Canon, Character Study, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mention of sex, Minor Injuries, Now with postscript, Sparring, These boys need to talk more, it's Zeetha what did you expect, like seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:49:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28688175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trivena_Butterfly/pseuds/Trivena_Butterfly
Summary: Gil knows there's never just one objective, that's just how Tarvek thinks. Well, two can play at that game.Besides, they never got to finish that brawl. At least they're dressed this time.
Relationships: Tarvek Sturmvoraus & Gilgamesh "Gil" Wulfenbach
Comments: 11
Kudos: 29





	1. Because It Needed To Be Said

**Author's Note:**

> I started out intending to write fluff to balance out some of the darker stories I've been inflicting on the characters. They had other ideas on what they wanted to talk about, and it's safer not to argue. This worked out nicely, anyway.

The practice room was usually empty at this time of day, which was exactly why they had chosen it.

It had been Tarvek’s suggestion, but Gil was only too happy to spar with somebody at his own level. After all, they’d only barely all escaped from that airship just last week, when Tarvek had come running from the wheelhouse with his coat in pieces yelling that it was about to explode, and are you _still_ fighting that mushroom clank, why isn’t it scrap yet? And three other, similar, occasions in the previous month, not to mention- well, he _had_ mentioned them, hadn’t he, and Tarvek had remarked that it sounded like he could use some practice, so here they were.

Gil lifted his sword into a guard position, and Tarvek raised his in answering salute. “En garde.”

Tarvek immediately went on the attack. Gil really shouldn’t have been surprised; everything he’d observed about the way he fought was focused around keeping the initiative as much as possible, almost as if he didn’t want to give his opponent time to think.

Gil settled into a defensive stance, planting his feet as his sword matched every jab. He wasn’t about to let Sturmvoraus push him around if he could help it.

The opening exchange was nothing too surprising; just the usual testing for obvious weaknesses in technique, or injuries (both recent and old) that might leave an opening.

“I see the shoulder that bishop yanked in Paris isn’t bothering you anymore,” Tarvek remarked conversationally.

“That healed years ago,” Gil dismissed it in a similar tone. “How’s the arm? Healed up alright?”

“Captain DuPree wasn’t lying when she said she didn’t wound me badly,” Tarvek admitted, reluctantly. “But it reopened a worse one, so _that_ took longer to heal properly than it should have.”

Gil gave a long-suffering sigh. He knew which injury Tarvek was referring to; he’d seen it when he was patching up Bang’s ‘love tap’. “You just can’t keep yourself out of trouble, can you? Less than twenty-four hours back in normal time, and you got yourself kidnapped-” “I was not res-” “- _twice_ ,” Gil continued over his protest, “ _and_ stabbed. And that’s just the ones who succeeded.”

“I was not responsible for _any_ of those!” Step, step. _Duck,_ withdraw, step. “How many of the others were Martellus’?” Tarvek enquired, letting Gil parry his exploratory thrust.

“Oh, three, four? One of them might have been from an uncle?” Gil turned the shrug into a riposte. “He’s persistent, I’ll give him that.”

“He’s a stubborn ass and always has been. Only pays attention to what _he_ wants, and doesn’t see the point in changing because it’s ‘always worked’.” The last few words were punctuated with a sudden lunge and several sharp jabs, forcing Gil to give ground or suffer a skewered liver.

“Are you talking about Martellus, or your family in general?” he asked, preparing his footing for a retaliation. “Because I can think of a few names; some of their letters were _exactly_ the same as ones they sent my father.”

“And was _he_ any better?” Tarvek goaded. “‘By force’ always seems to have been _his_ preferred method, too. Agatha _told_ me what he had planned for her, or have you _forgotten?_ ” Another lunge, and this time Gil went sideways, feeling the tug of steel across his sleeve.

He knew that, respect for his achievements aside, Tarvek didn’t much like the former Baron, but this seemed excessively antagonistic. “Are you _trying_ to make me attack you for real, Sturmvoraus? Because if you are, you’re going the right way about it.”

“I am _testing_ you,” Tarvek replied irritably, raising his sword back into a guard position. “You’re letting yourself get _distracted_.”

Only then did Gil notice the thin line of red along the edge of Tarvek’s blade, and the light icy burn of parted skin just below his elbow. He let part of his mind assess the injury as the rest of him watched his opponent. _Superficial. Minor. No bleeding worth speaking of._

Tarvek scowled at the tiny spatter of blood, deep in thought as his blade idly circled, and Gil recognised the subtle, tell-tale signs of his mind starting to turn in on itself. “That’s not good enough, Wulfenbach.”

“What?” Gil tapped swords to draw his attention back to their spar. “It’s only a tiny nick.”

The tap was answered with a riposte that Tarvek turned into an aggressive lunge. “Look, if we weren’t sparring, if I were really trying to kill you?” he said, as Gil leaned sideways to avoid it. “That ‘tiny nick’ would be all it took. You need to be better than that.”

“What, you’d be using poison?”

Tarvek shrugged as he withdrew. “Well, of course. If I wanted you dead, I’d use anything that got the job done.”

"But you couldn't rely on it,” Gil objected. “Most of your stuff's _biological_ toxins."

Tarvek looked mildly annoyed at this display of knowledge of the secret pharmacopeia. _What, does he still think they’re the only ones with spies? or brains?_ Gil wondered, bringing his sword down hard and forcing Tarvek’s with it. But what Tarvek said was: “I can’t argue with that; your immune system is frankly a monster in its own right. Which is why I wouldn’t be.”

Gil raised an eyebrow as he brought a foot down on - _drat_ \- where Tarvek’s blade had been a fraction of a second before. “Oh? What kind of _in_ organic poisons would work in that sort of dosage?”

“Oh, there’s all sorts of nasty oxidants and corrosive substances.” Tarvek deflected Gil’s sword away from his shoulder. “Most of them you can find in any laboratory or workshop. The biggest problem is the concentrations you’d need; the blade itself would probably dissolve first.” He followed up with a riposte that went right through Gil’s sleeve, quickly withdrawing it before Gil could use the fabric to trap the blade. “And when you’re supposed to remain subtle and unsuspected… well, half a blade and a necrotic wound are something of a smoking deathray, aren’t they?”

“So, no poison for me, then.” Gil ignored the damage to his shirt, forcing Tarvek backwards with a low series of hastily-parried strikes.

“Oh, I didn’t say _that_ ,” Tarvek smirked back. “Poison might not _kill_ you, but it could slow you down. Although a sedative would be _much_ more effective.” He punctuated the statement with a swipe towards the earlier nick.

“You wouldn’t.” Gil’s eyes widened as he ducked a little to avoid it. “We’re only _sparring_.”

He failed to deflect the next blow, a light slice across the side of his ribs. Yes, this shirt was _definitely_ going to be a loss at this rate.

“Of course not.” Tarvek pressed his advantage. “But making you _think_ I did? That was almost as effective, wasn’t it?”

“I let you get into my head again,” Gil realised. “I’ll have to watch that, won’t I?”

“You will, but it won’t work.” Tarvek’s next strike came dangerously close to taking off a button, which would have left his shirt flapping distractingly. _Hmm_. Maybe he should have let it connect after all; Zeetha had obliquely suggested, more than once, that Tarvek might be interested in men, or at the very least in Gil specifically. Maybe the next one… he dragged his attention back to what Tarvek was saying. “Learning how to effectively recognise and counter mind games takes a _lot_ of practice. Which is the feint, and which the actual attack?” Tarvek challenged. “Is there a hidden attack at all? Or is that just what I want you to- oop!”

It was Gil’s turn to grin as he sliced neatly through the seam of Tarvek’s previously-immaculate vest. “Of course, I don’t _need_ to, not when you’re so easily distracted by a chance to show off.”

Tarvek disengaged, and his face set into a grimace as he fingered the damaged fabric. “Oh, it is _on_ now.” He renewed his stance, raising his sword back into a guard position, and Gil mirrored him. “En garde!”

Gil found himself hard-pressed this time, as Tarvek flicked his blade liquid as water. No, bad metaphor; when sparkwork could make a phrase like that _literal_ , a metaphor needed work to not be taken wrong. More than he had the concentration for right now, really. He stepped backward, once, twice, and Tarvek matched his movements. _Yes_. Another step back, then quickly forward again when Tarvek followed, and locked their blades toge- _tried_ to lock their blades together. Tarvek’s simply wasn’t there anymore.

Tarvek was behind him, smirking again.

Gil pivoted to face him once more. “How did I not know you were this fast?”

Tarvek snorted. “The Way of Smoke is all _about_ secrecy, misdirection, and illusion. I’ve been ensuring people underestimate me for my entire _life_.”

 _Ah. Finally we’re getting somewhere._ “Does this mean you trust me?” he asked. “And if you say _anything_ about ‘capabilities of strategic assets’, I’ll hide all your cravats for a _week_.”

Tarvek’s face went carefully blank. “‘Trust is between a Valois and his Knight; all else is vulnerability,’” he recited. Then he scowled. “That’s one of the basic principles they hammered into us.”

“‘One of’?” Gil raised an eyebrow along with his sword. “That sounds very… isolating. Are the rest anything like that?”

“Let’s just say that most people would consider them… outside of the norm.” Tarvek’s gaze stayed on their weapons, away from Gil’s face. _Interesting_.

Out loud, Gil said: “That would explain a _lot_.”

Tarvek glared, and surged forward again. “Don’t get too caught up in trying to understand the Order’s mindset. It got rather… _skewed_ in recent decades.”

“It’s a bit difficult to change two hundred years of habits in two decades,” Gil pointed out. He sidestepped the thrust more easily than he expected, and deliberately delivered his return one a full foot to the right of where he would have put it in a genuine fight. It still only barely missed running Tarvek through. _That’s… not good. Is he tiring_ already?

One, two, _click, click_ , and a well-placed boot sent Tarvek… well, not sprawling, but definitely a lot more off-balance than he should have been.

“What’s wrong, Sturmvoraus? Having trouble keeping up?”

Tarvek aimed a glare in his direction. “You have no idea what normal human stamina even _is_ , do you,” he huffed.

Gil stepped back politely while Tarvek recovered his equilibrium. “Oh, come on. You were nowhere _near_ this exhausted when we had that fight in the Great Movement Chamber.”

“That’s because our systems were linked; I was borrowing _yours_ , you great clod.”

“I didn’t notice,” Gil frowned.

“You had my symptoms.” Tarvek cocked an eyebrow at him. “You do remember how sick I was, don’t you?”

He did. “You could hardly sit up until we started the Si Vales," Gil recalled. "But once we did, we didn’t have too much trouble getting you up and moving, even though you still felt like death warmed over.”

Tarvek seemed to have gotten his wind back, launching himself from a half-crouch into a low attack. “And you felt exactly as bad as I did. If anything, _I_ was holding _you_ up.”

“No you-” Gil began reflexively. But his arm _had_ been draped over Tarvek’s shoulder, all the way out of the lab, and for more than just reassurance that they hadn’t managed to kill him by accident. “-ok, yeah, that’s fair,” he conceded. He batted Tarvek’s sword aside anyway.

“I think that’s the worst I’ve ever felt in my life,” Gil admitted.

“So of course you didn’t notice that you tired out more easily than you should have.” Tarvek circled to Gil’s left, looking for an opening. “You _expected_ to.”

“I guess that does make sense, then. You’re right, I _did_ put it down to the whole ‘being really sick’ thing.”

“If it had been anyone else, anyone less vital, we’d _both_ have died. You nearly did _anyway_.” Straightening, Tarvek feinted back right, and Gil tracked him just a _little_ slower than he would if he really had fallen for it. “In hindsight, tossing you all over the place and wearing ourselves out like that was probably not the best of ideas.”

Tarvek’s blade flicked out, and Gil barely caught it on his own as he retorted: “Tossing _me_ all over the place? _I_ threw _you!_ ”

“Please, you call that a throw?” Tarvek scoffed. “Lift-and-drop, at most.”

Gil telegraphed his next lunge, stomping forward hard enough that Tarvek should feel it through his boots. “As you just reminded me, I was sharing my strength with a half-dead fop. But you’re right, that fight really wasn’t in our top ten of good ideas.” He twisted to let the riposte slip past his shoulder, and at the same time dropped his elbow, so he could aim for Tarvek’s leg. “Especially since Agatha missed most of it.”

(High above, in the rafters, Zeetha smothered a giggle.)

Tarvek barely got his foot out of the way, but this time he _did_ stumble. Gil withdrew for a moment to let him recover his balance, quite fairly he thought.

“Do you think she’d enjoy that sort of thing? An exhibition match, maybe?” Tarvek wondered out loud, circling warily.

(Violetta dangled a bag of popcorn in front of Zeetha. “Sorry I'm late. Did I miss anything good?”

“Lots, but it looks like they’re about to start getting interesting again.")

"Especially if you don't make an exhibition of _yourself_." Gil made an idle swipe at Tarvek's blade, preparing to launch into a new exchange. "Watch your feet, you almost stepped on yourself there."

"You watch _yours_ ," Tarvek returned. "You're not always going to be able to fight on _solid ground_." That last was accompanied by a sudden charge as Tarvek's blade flickered into a blur, and it was almost all that Gil could do to redirect it away from everything he wanted to keep attached. Had Tarvek been fresh, and actually trying to kill him, Gil had no doubt that the attack would have left his torso in ribbons. As things stood, it was his shirt that suffered.

"Not bad." He deliberately looked thoughtful for a moment. "Actually, she might prefer we sparred _without_ shirts."

("Ooh, tasty!" Zeetha nudged Violetta. "Now _that_ would be a feast for the eyes!"

"You're kidding, right?" Violetta looked aghast. "Tarvek's my _cousin!_ We grew up together!"

“And Gil’s my brother. Doesn’t mean I can’t still appreciate his muscles!”

“Ewww!”

“Hey! It is _not_ always about sex!”

“You could’ve fooled me.”)

Gil grinned as Tarvek processed the idea. Had he been holding a drink instead of a sword, Tarvek would definitely have choked. As it was, he turned bright red, and launched into another flurry that _definitely_ wasn't up to standard.

"Wow, you really _are_ getting tired," Gil remarked, fending off the blows with only a little extra effort. "Sure you haven't had enough?" He picked his moment, and slammed his blade down onto Tarvek's again, intending to jolt it out of his hand or pin it to the floor.

It wasn't there.

It was in Tarvek's _other_ hand, and Tarvek had moved, too, and Gil was overcommitted and had no way to get back into position that quickly.

“I’m not so exhausted that I can’t take advantage of an obvious opening when I see one.” Tarvek’s blade skated along Gil’s ribs again, catching the same spot he’d sliced open before as Gil twitched sideways.

This time, Gil clamped his arm down, heedless of the damage it would do to what was left of his shirt - and himself - and _twisted_ , dragging Tarvek along until he lost his grip. At the same time, he dropped his own sword so that he could grab Tarvek by his collar, lifting him just enough off the floor to keep him from getting any leverage, but not so far that he could kick freely.

“But you _are_ tired enough to leave _yourself_ open. And it’s not the first time, either. Unless that’s deliberate? Because I _know_ we’ve talked about this.” Gil gave him a little shake for emphasis. Tarvek tried to kick him anyway.

“About what?” he asked innocently, as if he didn’t know.

“You. Us. This habit you have of letting yourself get hurt to protect us. Of not talking to us. Wearing yourself out trying to do everything yourself. Not telling us _you have a plan_ , until it’s too late for us to _help you_.”

“Oh, like you’re so much better, Herr I-can’t-sleep-I-have-an-empire-to-run.” Tarvek went for his elbow, but Gil was already anticipating it and blocked him with his free hand.

“That was _not_ the same, and this is not about _me_. Don’t change the subject when I’m trying to have a talk with you.”

Tarvek dropped his arms, and folded them instead. “Will you at _least_ put me down? This is undignified.”

“Only if you promise to stay put and _listen_ for a change.” They glared at each other for a full minute, stalemated, before Gil broke the silence. “I can do this a _lot_ longer than you can.”

“Okay, _fine_. I’ll stay.”

Gil let go, and Tarvek staggered a bit before he found his footing. It really was quite impressive, how long he was holding that glare.

They retrieved their swords to slide them back into their sheaths, and Gil started unbuttoning his shirt so he could check the damage. There was a first-aid kit by the door, stocked specifically for fencing injuries. He’d probably need stitches, at minimum.

“You’re hurt.” Tarvek sounded more upset by that than he would have liked to let show. Good, it would help make his point.

“Of course I am, that’s what a sword _does_.” Yes, between the blood and the conspicuous damage, this shirt was definitely a loss. He might as well tear it into bandage lengths, since it practically was already. He needed them, anyway.

“You _deliberately_ cut yourself.”

Gil lowered the shredded shirt and looked Tarvek in the eye. “How did it feel to watch me deliberately let myself get hurt unnecessarily?” He watched Tarvek’s face stiffen. “That’s how we feel every time _you_ do it. How many times do we have to go through this before you get the message, Tarvek? You're worrying me. You're worrying Violetta. You're worrying _Agatha_."

"That's emotional blackmail and you know it."

"If it'll get you to listen? Then I don't care. Whatever gets the job done," Gil flung back at him.

"Oh, that's _low_."

“‘Trust is between a Valois and his Knight,’” Gil quoted. “You’re _our_ Knight, Tarvek; our Valois. We _care_.”

“A Smoke Knight’s job is to protect their Valois _with their life_ , if that’s what it takes.” It probably sounded reasonable, to him; after all, he’d been brought up believing it.

“You’re our _Valois_ , too. When you hurt, _we_ hurt. And if you die, we’ve failed.”

“That’s not what you said in Castle Heterodyne.”

“Now you’re misinterpreting things deliberately. Things I said when I want to wring your stupid neck myself don’t count, you idiot. Stop playing verbal games and just _listen to me for a change._ ”

“I _am_ listening.”

“No you’re not, you’re _arguing_. And you’re looking for every possible way you can think of to get out of promising anything that will stop you from keeping on with what you’ve been doing. _Don’t_ try to lie to me, you know I know you better than that. I can _see_ you thinking it.” He finished tearing up what was left of his shirt, and lifted his arm to check the cuts. “Give me a hand with this, will you? I can’t reach properly.”

Tarvek had already brought the first-aid box over, and now he pulled out thread and a suturing needle. He frowned at Gil. “That’s a lot deeper than it needed to be.”

“Would you have let go if I’d been any gentler?”

“Of course not! ‘Never let yourself be disarmed.’” Tarvek tugged the first stitch through, ignoring Gil’s slight wince.

“Another of these ‘basic principles’?” Gil queried. “They’re all designed to make the students of the Order into its living tools, aren’t they. The Order that was founded to serve the Storm King, correct?”

“To serve _me_ , yes.” He pulled the second stitch probably a little harder than he needed to.

“Well, you’re not _acting_ like it! You’re talking more like one of their brainwashed Smoke Knights!” Gil felt the tremble start in Tarvek’s hands, and gently took the needle from his fingers before he could stab him by accident.

“The Smoke Knights are _not_ brainwashed!”

“No, they’re _wasped,_ which is _worse_. Have you seriously never stopped to think ‘if the Order was wrong to serve Lucrezia, and to use the Other’s tools, maybe they were wrong about other things too’?”

“That was my _father’s_ fault.”

“But your father was the head of the Order. He was raised into it, just like you were. Don’t you think he would have been a very different person, made very different decisions, without it?”

This time Tarvek didn’t have an answer.

“Well?”

“Shut _up_. I’m _thinking_.”

“Promise me you’ll at least _warn us_ before you run off alone with some brilliant plan that’ll nearly get you killed, ok?”

“Will it get you to stop hassling me?”

“Only if you actually keep it.”

Tarvek took the needle back, and finished his stitching in silence.

⚔

“I’ve been a terrible friend, haven’t I.”

“Hmm?” Gil looked up from where he held the end of a bandage pinned in place with his free hand.

“‘You never call, you never write…’ and I never _talk_. I could see there was something bothering you and I didn’t ask you if you were ok. Instead I just prodded you and provoked you until it all came out and you let yourself get hurt before that happened and _that’s not ok_. I shouldn’t have let it get this far.”

Gil raised an eyebrow. “You don’t talk about what’s bothering _you_ , either. What would it have taken, if this hadn’t happened?”

Tarvek bit his lip as he tied off the bandage. “Honestly? I don’t know. Getting into the habit of having someone I _can_ talk to… isn’t going to be easy. I wish we’d done this earlier.”

“So do I. I shouldn’t have let it go on as long as it has.” Gil retrieved his coat from a hook by the door. “If we have to do it like this again, I’m giving your shoes to Krosp.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“Just watch.”

Gil watched Tarvek carefully as he put his own coat on, tutting irritably over the damaged waistcoat. He could practically hear the click in his head as Tarvek finally put the pieces together.

“Wait… sparring was _my_ idea! That’s so unfair!”

“Mmhmm. Yes. Yes, it was.” He started heading for the door, and Tarvek followed.

“ _You_ planned this too. Did you arrange this whole thing just to yell at me?”

Gil let his grin broaden, completely unapologetic. “Aw, you worked it out!”

"Clod."

"Fop."

⚔

(“Um. Let’s not tell anyone we saw that, hey? They never saw us, and we were never here.”

Violetta shook her head a little. “No, Wulfenbach knew we were here the whole time. He meant for us to see that.”  
  
“ _What?_ Why?!”

“Because they trust us.” She smiled. “And we care.”)


	2. Because It Was Never Going To Be That Easy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be finished. It was supposed to be a one-shot. It wasn't supposed to keep _going_. But this little postscript just demanded to be added.
> 
> Dammit, Muse.

The weeks passed by as quietly as they normally did, which is to say, not very quietly at all. A clank uprising here, a minor Spark flooding the wrong valley there; nothing that three of the strongest Sparks in Europa couldn’t deal with, and still have time for tea and arguments.

A piercing, anguished shriek split the air.

Agatha pulled her head out from under the engine she was reassembling. "What was _that?!_ " she demanded of the room.

Violetta didn't look up from her knives. "Nothing much," she shrugged. "Just his Royal Whininess finding out that Wulfenbach keeps his promises."

No more details seemed to be forthcoming, so Agatha went back to her work. If it was that unimportant, she'd find out over breakfast; listening to Tarvek rant about trivialities was almost as enjoyable as working with him.

And if she dismissed Krosp passing by ten minutes later, looking exceedingly smug, well, she couldn’t be blamed for seeing nothing usual about that. Cats can always find a reason to be pleased with themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I’m unexpectedly updating this story, I’d like to take the opportunity to talk about some of my choices in writing it.
> 
> There’s actually _three_ contests in the original story: the spar itself (no clear winner - more below), getting the other to actually talk/listen about whatever’s bothering them ( ~~won handily by Gil~~ actually a draw, since Tarvek did find out what was bothering Gil), and creating the opportunity for same (also Gil, having maneuvered Tarvek into suggesting the spar and thinking it was his own idea).
> 
> Who won the spar depends on which criteria you judge by: Gil disarmed and disabled his opponent first, but Tarvek scored _far_ more hits, even drawing blood. I interpret the two of them as having very different approaches to fighting: Gil is basically a tank; tough, strong, and will outlast practically anyone. Tarvek, on the other hand, aims to end a fight as quickly as possible, either by losing quickly, with as little injury to himself as he can get away with, while still preserving the appearance of incompetence (usually if he’s outmatched or there’s witnesses), or by tearing through his opponent and giving them no opportunities at all. _Neither_ approach works in a friendly spar with Gil, who already knows he’s very dangerous and he doesn’t want dead, because Gil can take anything he’s willing to dish out, and is about as good as Tarvek himself is; all Gil has to do is outlast him. Tarvek’s only option is lasting as long as he can, so every time Gil gains some advantage, Tarvek ramps up a little more to counter him. But he can’t keep this up, so when he begins to tire, Tarvek exaggerates his exhaustion, to squeeze one last advantage out of it.
> 
> It would have worked, too, if Gil hadn’t already intended to find a way to make him stay put long enough for a lecture. Picking your opponent up like a misbehaving kitten is _not_ an expected tactic in any known fighting style.


End file.
